


Obedience

by DictionaryWrites



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Casual Sex, Exhibitionism, Kneeling, M/M, Oil, Orders, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 00:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond visits (read: breaks in) to Q's flat early one morning. Q is as inviting as ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obedience

Q is naked. He almost doesn't seem aware of the fact, because he's on his balcony leaning on the ledge. He's got, bizarrely enough, a steaming cup of tea in his hands. He's naked, out on a London balcony at four AM in November, drinking his hot drink as if he's warm and clothed inside.

Bond had, as one would expect, broken into the other man's apartment, on the highest floor of a very tall block of flats, and he'd spent little time glancing at the quaint décor, the scattered books, the numerous wires and sticks and _drives_ and what have you. He had been looking for Q, not Q's things, and the former he'd gladly found.

"Are vetements too mainstream for you, now?" Bond's question cuts through the icy air, but Q doesn't so much as flinch. It's as if the other man had been expecting him – and perhaps he had, for all Bond knew. 

"I'm not a hipster, Bond." Q says smoothly. "I'm surprised a fossil like you understands the concept." He takes a sip from his drink; he hasn't yet turned his head back to look at Bond. Instead he just continues to look over the city below. If Bond leaned a little he could probably see the other's cock, soft between his legs, but he doesn't lean.

He is, however, somewhat glad of the fact that the balcony's edge is a full wall to waist height, as opposed to bars that might bare Q to any unsuspecting glancers upward.

"Well, what do _I_ know? The glasses give a hipster-y vibe." Bond says, and he shifts forwards, presses his body against Q's naked back, feels the flesh cold as marble as he lays his hands on the smaller man's hips. He likes Q's hips, likes his bones, likes the light muscle of a man that occasionally works out through choice, and not through professional necessity.

"The glasses, Bond, give me sight." Q drawls in return, as if he's bored of the other man's very existence. Despite the all-but-disparaging tone, he tilts his head back, and he glances at Bond's mouth before he meets the agent's eyes. It is a silent invitation, a subtle _command_ , even, for him to put his lips to quartermaster's neck. 

"And what do you need to survey with that sight of yours at four in the morning, you dirty streaker?" Bond is of course an obedient man ( _ha!_ ), and so he dips, dragging his mouth over Q's right shoulder. It is gratifying to draw a quiet hum before the other continues to speak.

"I'm not a streaker, Bond. Arguably, I'm a nudist, but I'm too high for anyone to see me." He's not so high that a sniper couldn't see him, Bond thinks as he nips at the back of the other man's neck, but he does not voice the thought. Intrusive, nasty idea.

"Semantics." Bond purrs, and then he bends over Q and sets about suckling a pretty bruise on ths side of his throat. Q's hand shakes just slightly, mug disturbed, and Bond watches a drop of tea fall as if in slow motion. 

The cup could fall just as easy: images flash across Bond's mind's eye of a pedestrian sprawled dead on the street far below, shards of mug buried in her skull. Her thick brown hair would be soaked with tea, matted with new blood. She could be Sévérine. The image changes, and a different body sprawls on the grey stones: Vesper. Again: M.

Once more, not a woman this time: Q, naked still.

He feels nausea in the pit of his stomach.

Bond takes the mug from his hand, setting it on the table behind them. 

"Why don't I fuck you, Q?" He asks, and his hand slips between the other man's thighs, cupping his balls, thumbing over his arsehole. 

"He complains as to my nudity one moment, becomes a content exhibitionist the next." Q says dryly, complaining in a droll tone to an invisible camera. Idiot thinks he's on _The Office._

"It's not exhibitionism. “No one can see us”, you said." A sniper could. Shots could be taken from anywhere in the vicinity; Bond's brains could be spattered across the back wall and the pale canvas of Q's back as easy as anything.

"Stop thinking so loudly." Q says. His tone is strict, and yet behind that faux command is concern. Muted concern, true, but it is there. He's not quite as good as hiding his emotions as Bond is; that's good, probably. Until he gets taken for interrogation, that is.

"Stop eavesdropping." Bond says in just as sharp a tone, and then he drags his mouth from Q's hairline down his spine. He traces the line of bone with his breath hot on the other's flesh, until his mouth rests at the top of Q's arse. It's a work of art, this arse, with its fleshy curves and pretty skin.

He sees and feels the new stiffness of the other's form before he hears the anticipatory inhalation. 

Q wants to be rimmed.

Bond can comply.

He spreads the other man's cheeks with his thumbs, and his tongue darts out: he drags it over the other's entrance, delights in the fact that those long, slender fingers ( _they'd be so easy for someone to break_ ) grasp tightly at the edge of the balcony's wall. His knees quake, and Bond feels immense satisfaction, even though he knows this sensitivity is a _vulnerability_ as much as it is a pleasure.

He presses his mouth forwards, plays over the skin with his tongue before pressing  _in_ , and Q lets out a soft, choked whimper. Bond wishes he could see his face right now, though he can imagine it with ease: Q with his eyes tightly closed, strain all across his face, his jaw clenched, his lips parted...

Bond thrusts his tongue once more, and Q bends over, his forearms on the edge of the wall, and as Bond continues, grasping and playing over the other's  _charming_ arse and thighs as he fucks the other man with his tongue, he lets out sound after glorious sound. Those on the balconies below can probably hear Q cry out, but Bond can't care about that just now.

He withdraws his tongue and he gives a low, husky laugh upon hearing the hacker's irritated sound of loss, because Bond stands, flips the other around and presses the small of his back against the side of the wall before dropping to his knees again (for the first time, he registers that he's undoubtedly scuffing the knees of his trousers and that it's most certainly worth it) and dragging his tongue over the quartermaster's balls, beginning to jack him slowly with his left hand. His right curves around Q's knee to keep him there.

With that, he continues, hums around the other's flesh and enjoys the way he quakes and whines and gasps, and when he comes Bond pulls back, watches his cock pulse and  _dribble_ , and delights in the loss of Q's usual composure. 

It takes the quartermaster a little while to regain himself, taking in slow breaths and schooling his expression into something less fucked out.

A shame. He looks very  _charming_ with the latter.

“Why are you here, Bond?” Q asks after a few moments' worth of pause, and he holds out his hand. Bond stands and passes him his tea: see? _Obedient._

“Just thought I'd drop by.”

“Break in.” Q corrects him, and Bond raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence.

“What? Did I scare you?”

“Terrified me.” Q says, in as flat a tone as he can muster. “Cup of tea?”

“Whiskey.”

“Cup of tea.” Q says, as if agreeing with the assent Bond hadn't given, and he moves into the kitchen, slipping a cardigan over his naked flesh. Bond tuts, but he follows the other man into the kitchen; he'll take the tea, for now.

He suspects Q doesn't even _have_ alcohol on hand – never struck him as a drinker. “Not old enough to _buy_ whiskey, I suppose.”

“Got your bus pass yet?” Q retorts; Bond's lip twitches. He wraps himself around Q again, leaning over him, pressing a slow kiss to the base of his neck.

“Let me stay here, tonight.”

“Fuck me.”

“Here? In front of your _Bugatti_ kettle?”

“The kettle doesn't mind.”

“Oh, very _well.”_ Bond murmurs, and when Q grasps at a fancy jug, painted in blues and whites to match the quartermaster's pretentious, tiny kitchen, Bond takes it readily. Olive oil: how very continental. “Spread your legs.”

“Don't tell me what to do.” Q says, and, of course, does so.

It's nice when the obedience is _mutual_ , after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a reminder that my Tumblr user is also dictionarywrites, [commissions are open](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/post/95787169223/check-me-out-on-ao3-my-writing-tumblr-or), and I'm currently running a giveaway. The first prize is a 7500 word fic of your choice from me, the second is a 2000 word piece, and the three runners-up are 500-750 word short fics.  
> [ Here is the link.](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/post/95584589483/thats-right-folks-hi-there-im-dictionary) The draw is going to be on the 15th of September.


End file.
